


never loved a darker blue.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Drunken Flirting, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Starlight Celebration (Final Fantasy XIV), Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and it's ao3's problem now, crystal cat gramps is drunk & feelin himself, no beta we just? die?, op is winedrunk & in her feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26099422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: Many had tried—to varying lengths of success and always falling short—to catch your eye. You were not unused to casual flirtations and coeurl-calls, from the shortest and boldest of Lalafells to the tallest and loveliest of Roegadyn.In all your adventures, you did not think you had ever been so thoroughly flustered by mere flirtation before.The Exarch indulges in some strong drink. Pure fluff.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 25
Kudos: 248





	never loved a darker blue.

**Author's Note:**

> cw: alcohol and two drunk people flirting, being suggestive, and kissing. if such things are not your thing, no worries.

It is your experience that these things always go the same way.

It is the Starlight Celebration on Eorzea, and your companions, set adrift from their homeland in time and space, realize they cannot rightly celebrate the holiday as true-born Eorzeans do, and so, with a crate of spirits straight from the Seventh Heaven, packed with love from Tataru, you and your friends commit to getting well-and-truly drunk in the Catenaries. The manager, upon seeing the Scions’ familiar faces trail to their preferred bar, conspired with the on-duty bartenders to take particular care with these travel-weary guests—it would not do to upset the Warrior of Darkness or their companions with a stiffed drink or cold food.

Not that you would have noticed, anyway.

The kinship you feel with the Scions burns within your heart brighter than any of Ifrit’s nails as you watch your friends drink deep and celebrate; good conversation flows as plentiful as the Reborn Red in your glass, laughter streaming like the Ishgardian brandy Ryne sneaks a swig of straight from the bottle before sputtering indelicately into her water. Y’shtola turned up her nose at the chosen spirits, instead proffering her own dusty bottle of wine brewed rom a secret fruit never having seen the light of day by the Night’s Blessed. Your raucous laughter at Urianger’s well-told irreverent Fae tale attracts the attention of a curious Captain Lyna; she’s dressed simply in a red tunic and leggings as she drags up one of the larger wooden chairs before reaching across the table for a tankard herself. She always seemed cautious of you and your friends, as if she could never quite dispense with her guarded demeanor, but she laughs freely and openly as a jape from Thancred, retorting with a smirk that had no doubt captured the imagination of not a few Crystarium citizens.

“The guards told me some obnoxious drunks were causing trouble in the Catenaries,” you hear a sardonic tone say from behind you, the conversation falling into silence, “but I must admit, I did not think it would be my highly esteemed _guests_ on bad behavior.”

You crane your neck to see the tired and handsome face of the Crystal Exarch, his scarlet eyes twinkling with mirth.

“G’raha Tia!” Thancred booms, his arm wrapped casually around Ryne’s small shoulders, “’tis a surprise you haven’t fallen asleep at your desk again! I daresay I’ve never see you out and about at so late a bell, old man.”

The Exarch’s scarlet ear flicks, so fast you might have missed it if you weren’t so attuned to his movements. You find yourself wondering if he was always this… _gorgeous_ looking. Perhaps you’d had more wine than you’d warranted. “Yes, well, I am endeavoring to rest more, per the Captain’s orders.” He gestures politely to Lyna, who looks embarrassed from behind her tankard of Dwarven ale, poorly stifling a hiccup.

“M-My lord, if we are disturbing anyone, we can disperse or move to private—”

He holds up a placating hand. “’Twas merely jest, Lyna. I was walking back from the Cabinet of Curiosities, heard some laughter, and wanted to sate my curiosity.” He reaches over the table to pluck a bottle of Realm Reborn Red from the table, eyes growing wide as he examines the gilded label with his pondering fingers. “I haven’t had this since I first became an Archon, many, many years ago,” he breathes, “I wonder, would you permit…?”

As he speaks, Urianger stands, politely lifting a chair between you and Lyna. “Please take thy leisure; thou hath earned a respite many times over in thy service to us and the people of the Crystarium, and we would be gladdened by thy company.”

“’Tis easy to forget, that you were a Sharlayan scholar as well,” Thancred notes, gesturing to his own Circle of Knowing tattoos. “You’re as much one of us as any, and more than welcome at our table.”

“Had events not gone awry, ’tis likely you would have joined the Scions,” Alphinaud notes. He had diluted his own brandy with strong Eulmoran tea, still wincing as he took cautious sips. “In truth, you are more qualified than Alisaie or I to join such an order.”

“Well,” Alisaie quips, swirling her own glass of brandy with a smirk, “I wouldn’t say _more_ qualified.”

The Exarch uncorks the bottle with a deft twist of his hand, waiting a moment for the foam to subside before pouring two modest glasses of champagne. “That was my hope,” he says, with not a little longing in his voice. “At least, what G’raha Tia had hoped, when he first chanced upon the Warrior of Light in Mor Dhona.” He passes you one flute with a chivalrous smile. You blush at his words, taking the glass from him. “At any rate, I daresay Master Baldeison would have been thrilled to have been rid of me, even if meant my moving on to somewhat more pleasant shores.”

“I did not have the privilege of knowing yon Master Baldeison well, but he was, and remains even still, highly revered amongst the Sharlayans,” Urianger rumbles, “as well as mine own Master Louisoix.”

“He also had a short temper for trifling know-it-all youths,” Y’shtola smiles, her fair cheeks beautifully flushed with wine, her eyes glimmering like moonlight in the darkness. “I seem to recall Krile saying you gave him no shortage of trouble... somewhat about an incident with a Morbol?”

It was the Exarch’s turn to blush, a flattering color that drew your eyes to all the finest points of his features. “Trouble is an _understatement_.”

Whether it was the wine, the feckless bite of chill in the air, or the nostalgia that comes from speaking of simpler times, the Exarch’s features grew younger and relaxed, the weariness of the mantle of the Crystal Exarch slipping away and revealing something more; not quite the boy who vied for your attention among ancient Allagan halls, but neither the man who bore the brunt of generations of work with wise smiles and somber eyes. It was the most common ground you had ever seen the Scions have with the Exarch, as they exchanged stories of their times in Sharlayan and as young hungry students. Lyna seemed especially mesmerized by his stories, leaning forward in her chair more and more with each word, leporine ears swiveling as she sipped at her tankard, her violet eyes glimmering like starlight. She was quick to prompt him when he trailed off; you suspected she was getting a lifetime’s worth of curiosities about her grandfather’s past and wasn’t wont to squander such a prize.

Somewhere between the Exarch’s second and third glass of wine, his arm drapes casually over your shoulder; it is a light touch, his spoken hand comforting as it lay upon your shoulder, his thumb casually brushing the sensitive skin of your nape and sending frazzles of electricity down your spine. You glance up to see if he’s prompting you to speak—but no, he’s lost in the flow of conversation and you realize there are not words enough to describe how precious his happiness is to you, and you lean not a little bit into his touch, losing yourself in the low rumble of his voice.

This shockingly intimate touch alone would have been cause for you to pause and note the shift in your friendship, but the evening is far from over, and Tataru’s gifts well-loved, you and the Exarch handily splitting the bottle of Reborn Red between yourselves. During a lull in conversation, Thancred and Urianger arguing amongst themselves over some quibble on Master Louisoix’s teachings as Y’shtola attempts a magic trick involving a daisy and a water goblet to entertain Ryne and Alisaie, you found your chin being tipped upwards, and meeting beseeching sanguine eyes bisected with a slash of obsidian.

You squeak with shock as the Exarch pinches your chin up to his face.

“I-I-Is s-s-somewhat—?” You stammer, shuddering as he roughly swipes his thumb across your cheek.

“Somewhat had caught my eye,” he murmurs, breath warm and wine-laden, “I initially assumed it was an eyelash or perhaps even a speck of blood, knowing your luck, but I can see now ’twas only your beauty, made radiant by the night.” He drops his hand and returns to the conversation, leaving you speechless and breathless.

You duck your head in embarrassment when you meet Captain Lyna’s horrified and bewildered eyes. “I am not _near_ drunk enough for this,” she grimaces under her breath.

After some time, the bottle nearing empty, the Exarch’s hand grows heavier on you, sliding down your back carelessly til it finds a resting point at the small of your waist, thoughtlessly slipping a finger beneath the heavy fabric of your sweater to rub dizzying circles into your chilled bare skin. Mid-sentence, your words falter in your throat—you had been recounting an adventure to Alisaie, but it’s impossible to focus with G'raha's touch fiery as levin on your skin, and you excuse your distraction by draining your glass and reaching for the Realm Reborn once more.

Many had tried—to varying lengths of success and always falling short—to catch your eye. You were not unused to casual flirtations and coeurl-calls, from the shortest and boldest of Lalafells to the tallest and loveliest of Roegadyn. 

In all your adventures, you did not think you had ever been so thoroughly flustered by mere flirtation before. And least of all did you expect the _Exarch_ to be the one to undo you so. 

In the way that parties so often do, you dissolve into your own disparate molecules of conversation; the Exarch, well-and-truly winesoaked now, leans heavily on your shoulder to whisper into your ear, calling you with a soothing rumble to note the constellations spangling the sky. “They have had no names,” he says, his voice smooth as well-worn velvet, “until now, for all knowledge of the stars had been lost to the century of Light. To think—the people of Norvrandt are only _now_ getting the opportunity to study the stars and their gravity upon this Shard. Any one of us might be chanced upon to be named among the stars—yourself _most_ assuredly, if I have aught to say on the matter. ’Tis dizzying to think on, isn’t it?”

You make some noise of agreement, struggling to keep your composure as his lips brush carelessly against the scorching shell of your ear. You wonder if anyone has noticed just _close_ he is to you; the impossibly intimate nature of his silken words in your ear, laden with fondness you had suspected but never seen evidence for, or if anyone’s chanced upon your hand splayed across his knee, nails digging into his skin in a vain attempt to keep him there as long as you could til the fates inevitably drove you apart once more.

“My lord Exarch.”

Evidently, one person had.

Captain Lyna, hiccuping and flushed, ungently raps the Exarch on his free shoulder. Still draped across you, he looks up at his granddaughter with a winning, easy smile. “You are well in your cups, old man. ’Tis time to sleep, I think.” She gives you a critical eye, and you cower beneath her lilac gaze. “Can I trust you to get him back to his study? Dare I say he seems quite… _attached_ to you. It should open for him. It’s to the left of the Umbilicus."

“O-Of course!” You stammer, feeling not a little like a child caught cuddling with a schoolboy.

“My dear, I am _hundreds_ of years old, if _I_ say it is time for bed, then I shall leave _then._ ” The Exarch gives Lyna a rakish grin that sets your heart hammering in your breast. “It was not long ago at all when _I_ was having to chase you halfway across the ‘Xedra to get you into bed at a reasonable hour. And then only with the promise of two coffee biscuits and a story.”

Lyna’s ears flatten back; the Scions fall quiet around you to witness the rare argument between the Exarch and his ward.

“There is nothing keeping me from throwing you over my shoulder like a popotosack, my _lord,_ ” she promises, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I-I don’t think you— no, you definitely could,” he mutters to himself. “Fine, fine, I’ll humor you, just this once.” He stands, shaky on his feet as he winds an arm around your shoulders. You slide an arm around his waist, willing the flush in your cheeks to quell long enough for you to escape the eyes of the Scions.

“I wonder if escorting an elderly drunkard back to his quarters is an upgrade from your usual errands,” Alisaie grins ruefully at you.

“It’s certainly not much different from the usual,” you scowl as you guide the Exarch, with little help from him, slowly down the stairs of the Catenaries.

“Happy Starlight, o’ esteemed and lovely Warrior of Darkness!” Thancred crows, toasting your departure, _“and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”_

You turn your head to spit an expletive back at him, halting as the Exarch yanks on your sweater to keep from slipping.

“I imagine the irony of Thancred Waters telling you to not do anything he wouldn’t isn’t lost on you,” the Exarch grins, his breath scorching your ear once more.

You sigh. “Not in the slightest.”

G’raha is smoke in your arms, impossible to grasp and slipping through your grip as he laughs disparately to himself as you struggle to keep your arms about his waist, clutching his robes in your fists in a vain attempt to keep him from sinking to the floor on the slick crystalline stairs to the Dossal Gates.

 _Along with being a lightweight,_ you grumble to yourself, _he is chatty!_

“Have I ever told you ‘bout the time Galuf Bal… Bal-dees… Bal-dees-e-yon yelled at me until he was quite literally blue in the face over getting the Allagan aetheric equation for converting astral to umbral wrong? By the Twelve, that man was _so_ strict… absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever, ‘tis a miracle Krile turned out the way she did… how is fair Krile, by the way? Is she alive, on the Source? For all the trouble she gave me, I quite miss her.”

“Fine, quite busy I imagine,” you scowl, “Ex— _G’raha_ , has anyone told you you’re a _terrible_ drunk?”

“I,” he blinks up at you with baleful scarlet eyes that melt any annoyances you had, “have not had so much as a _drop_ to drink in nigh on twenty years. I believe I am owed my indulgences, if you _please_ , o’ hallowed Warrior of Light.” He stretches up a hand and rakes it through your unbound hair with a carelessness you’d never thought him capable of. “Such lovely hair,” he hums, smiling. You have to steel yourself against capturing his lips with your own. “Has anyone ever told you how it catches the light? ’Tis distracting for all to see.”

Between his complete lack of cooperation and his honeyed words, you collapse on the stairs with him, sighing as he entertains himself by carding his fingers through your hair, a flush high on his cheeks, humming a puzzling song you cannot place under his wine-laden breath as he tangles his fingers in the strands of your hair.

“And a flirt to boot,” you try say with some heat, losing all intention as his thumb drags across your bottom lip with a casualness that sends thrilled shudders down your spine.

“Your eyes have always reminded me of my mother,” he purrs, “depthless and soulful, and one is like to fall in if they do not mind oneself—”

Lovely though his words may be, you have a feeling the Crystal Exarch would be highly displeased to find out the words G’raha Tia is spilling as easily as wine in a goblet.

“Okay,” you say determinedly, hooking your arms under his to drag his surprisingly heavy deadweight up the stairs, “you can wax poetic all you want when I get you into your bed.”

He crows with laughter. “To be perfectly honest, my dear, I hadn’t imagined you’d take me _this_ way, but—”

You flush hotly. “I-I will do no such thing!”

“That dwarven ale,” he drawls as you half-drag half-carry him through the Ocular, “I believe was brewed…. hmm, seven winters ago? Eight winters? Such temporal matters bleed together, in my old age. Ah, Lyna was just starting to audition for the Guard then—she wanted nothing to do with me, typical youth, but she did manage to nick a bottle and tried to drink it with—ah, what’s his name… erm… the… the Humes guard, the…”

You press on the door to his quarters; it is sealed shut by the Exarch’s magicks.

“If you’d be so kind.”

“And what shall you do if I refuse? Drag me to the Pendants, to seduce a disadvantaged old man?”

“I’ll get Captain Lyna,” you vow seriously.

His ears flatten. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. _And_ , I’d tell her the last time you’d taken your tonics.”

He scowls. “You play dirty, my friend.” With a flourish, he waves his crystal hand over the door, and it falls open to reveal, at first glance, a towering library. As you step inside, you realize it’s as close to a bedroom as the Exarch has ever allowed himself, a small unmade bed shoved against a wall, several tomes open at its feet, as if he was oft falling asleep reading them.

Perhaps the threat of Lyna hanging overhead rendered the Exarch more cooperative; leaning heavily on you for support, he falls into his modest bed with a sigh, stretching languidly on the sheets as you kneel to unbuckle his sandals. He sits up with a start, staring at you with wide eye and an agape mouth as you work the leather from the buckles.

You glance up. “What, pray tell, is the problem?”

“Y-Your actions belie meaning that one’s mind should not dwell on,” he stammers, cheeks heating.

You quirk an eyebrow, slipping off one sandal before starting on the next. “Am I… _distracting_ you?”

“ _Sinfully,”_ he groans, leaning back with a sigh.

“I wonder what the Crystal Exarch would say about G’raha Tia implying he likes seeing me on my knees,” you smirk.

“He’d probably agree; ’tis well-known the Crystal Exarch is but a dirty old man, chasing women a tenth his age.”

“You’re not wrong,” you laugh, finishing your task and coming to your feet. “How do you take off these robes, anyway?” They smell of booze and parchment as you finger along the gilding around his shoulders for some sort of latch. He stares up at you in a daze, the smile on his lips drunken and impossibly charming. You wonder if his lips would taste like the wine you’d shared, and will yourself to focus on _anything_ else but that sensuous mouth.

“For as advanced a civilization as the Allagans were, they relied upon traditional concepts of royalty to present themselves, and as fussy and pretentious and difficult to remove the clothes, the more regal the ruler. I, however, do have the time of day for such pretentiousness, so I took it upon myself—“

“—Shut up and take your clothes off.”

His eyes widen, his smirk devilish. “You said you weren’t trying to seduce me.”

“G’raha,” you say warningly.

“I am but a historian set adrift in time who has drank _far_ too much wine; who even lets an elder have so much alcohol? There should be… a _credence_ against such things. I’ll speak with the ruler of the land upon the ‘morrow—“

Your fingers catch on a clip during his ramblings and you’re able to tug off his robe, revealing a simple cotton tunic beneath. As his robe falls open, he takes your hand in his and presses it to his lips, leaving a dozen drunken kisses across your bruised knuckles and fingers, lingering on the myriad of cuts and scrapes dotting your mottled skin.

“H-Have you always been such a flirt?” You squeak, embarrassed and shocked at the breathy edge to your voice.

“You are decidedly difficult to resist even when I am wholly sober so it should come as no surprise to you that I am so thoroughly taken with one so lovely as yourself upon inebriation. I reckon every single on the Scions would be unable to turn down your affections—“

“We aren’t talking about the Scions right now,” you yelp. He stills, threading his chilly crystal fingers in yours. The texture is unexpectedly rough, and you burn with the inkling of how they would feel skirting across your bare skin.

“And I thought _I_ was the one who embarrassed easily.”

“Can you just turn off the lights?”

He chuckles darkly. “Warrior, your words say that you do not intend to take advantage of a helpless old man, but yet again your actions suggest somewhat entirely different.” But before you can retaliate, the lights dim with a flourish of his crystal arm; he collapses back on the bedsheets, dragging you with him to crush you pleasantly into his chest.

His hearty voice reverberates deep within him as he recounts some words from the same long-forgotten song from the stairs, fingers tangling in your hair with that same liberty he’d shown all evening.

“What song is this?” You whisper, his gentle singing feeling surpassingly intimate.

“Passed down, from my father’s father onwards,” he murmurs. “I am not wholly certain if it is from the Gryphon traditions or the Allagan, but it has stayed in me all these years.”

“You have a lovely voice.” It is the truth; his voice had always been lovely to listen to, making even the driest of explanations sound fascinating on his tongue, but his singing makes you homesick for somewhere you’d never known, perhaps not some _thing_ but some _one_.

“'Tis not half so lovely as yours, but I will accept the compliment with grace regardless.” He presses a tender kiss into the top of your head; your world spins with the pure thrill of it, leaving you feeling more drunk than any of the wine. “Did you know,” he purrs, his hand sliding down the slope of your back to maddeningly toy with the hem of your sweater, “there were at least three tomes of decidedly _erotic_ poetry written about you, the Warrior of Light? I believe some has already been published as of your time on the Source, but the others were written posthumously.”

Your heart hammers staccato and thready in your breast. “And I suppose you’ve read these.” You try to scowl, failing as his crystal fingers brush your hip and a shudder crawls beneath your skin.

“ _Purely_ for academic purposes, of course. They do not even scratch the surface of your beauty or candor, eloquent and unabashedly… _carnal_ though they may be. It seems you were paired with nearly every soul you could be traced to among your travels, some accounts so persuasive they even belied belief.”

You scoff. “As if I have an onze of time to accord to such trivial matters.”

“Ah, such is oft the case. But, that begs the question—what poetry will be written about us tonight, I wonder?”

“Somewhat about a dirty old man taking advantage of a poor hero, I hope,” you say with a smile. “Luring her into his Crystal Tower to—hells, now you’ve got _me_ being bawdy.”

“Oh no, don’t stop on my account, please. Tell me _all_ about the Exarch’s Crystal Tower.” He captures you with his arms, sliding onto his side and pulling you implacably with him. Short though he may be, you feel not unpleasantly crowded and caged by his presence in his small bed. His scent, the unique blend of aether, parchment and foreign spice is _everywhere,_ and you find yourself contemplating stealing a pillow in his stupor. His eyes are glittering rubies of amusement, the smile on his flushed lips such a rare and treasured thing you cannot help but trace it with a tentative finger, feeling the combined affects of the alcohol and his charms on yourself.

“Are you a specter, here to taunt me in the night?” He murmurs, pressing a silken whispered kiss to the pads of your fingers. “Here to comfort an addled old man in the throes of his intoxication? Truthfully you are usually _far_ less dressed, but this sweater is quite becoming on you.”

Your eyes widen. “Am I, now?”

He nods implacably. “Shall I tell you what your celestial self typically does? Or shall I save you the embarrassment?”

“Who, exactly, is being embarrassed here?” Your hand drifts upwards into his grey-streaked hair, marveling at how the silver strands glimmer in the dim aetherlight before drifting upwards to stroke his velveteen ears. His eyes immediately fall shut,body falling limp as you stroke them curiously. “Is this—?”

“Please don’t stop,” and his voice _cracks_ , his warm arms around you growing tighter with each stroke of your fingers. “ _Please_ …”

Your stomach wrenches as you struggle to parse the anguish in his voice as lust or pain, and as you rub at his ears like worry stones, wondering at the silken texture, you realize exactly what the tremulous timbre in his voice is—

Purest _longing._

“No one’s touched you in a long time, have they?” You whisper, transfixed as he curls around your body with a pained sigh. “Not like this, at least.”

“ _No_.” He shudders into your touch, the insistent hand at your hem fisting the cashmere in his fingers—not with ardor—but with the pure need and demand of a child.

“That’s what that specter does,” you say, eyes growing wide with realization, “they…”

“It is the sycophantic hallucination of a touchstarved besotted old man,” he says hoarsely, “a figment dispensing comfort during the rare twilight between sleep and waking, conjured into being from obsession, loneliness, and not a small amount of insanity.” He exhales with a groan as your hands drift from his ears to thread into his hair, nails dragging against his scalp slow and methodical.

“Why me?”

His eyes fly open at your words, bloodsoaked and hardened. “Who _else?”_

His direct answer shocks you into stony quiet. There had ever been an ambiguity to your relationship, things that simply weren’t addressed outside of such tenuous terms as _inspiration_ or _my friend._ But even more so than when he first revealed his face to you, you feel the confining titles of _Exarch_ and _Warrior_ fall away, and in their place two lost people, sharing wine and a neglected bed in a too-big tower a universe away from your homeland.

His gaze falters from yours, dark lashes sweeping his flushed cheeks. “W-Warrior, I apologize a _thousandfold_ for my directness—”

You have never been good with words, and you don't think now should be any exception to such things. 

His lips on yours are just as soft as you’d imagined, and the taste of _him_ and champagne irrevocably tilts your universe as you kiss him, both hands cradling his face. He returns as good as he’s given with ardor, his grip on your sweater growing steely as he tugs you flat against his chest, a growl escaping his parted lips as your tongue brushes his. By the Twelve you can _feel_ that icy precipice, and you know in that moment, just as he had promised time and time again, that he would give you anything, _everything_ if only you asked it of him.

And so you pull away, the sigh of his disappointment ghosting over your face as you stroke his reddened cheeks.

“You,” you smile, “are _incredibly_ drunk, Raha. And so, you are going to sleep this off, and we will discuss what… _this_ means on the morrow.”

His ears flicker at his name, and then he bristles at your words. “I-I am not _quite_ as drunk—” 

“A sober Exarch would have sooner died than allow me in his bed. Or telling me about his erotic poetry collection.”

He opens his mouth to retort, then falters. “Perhaps not _died,_ ” he says, petulant and sulky. “Perhaps… fainted from shock. Or embarrassment. And what of you? Would you have… kissed me stone sober?”

You place a tender kiss on his forehead. “You’ll simply have to find out, won’t you?” And before he can respond or try to capture you with silken words again, you slip out of his arms, retrieving his fallen blanket from the floor and draping it over him. “I’ll return at dawn—with tea, perhaps some sandwiches, and a tonic. Sleep well—and Happy Starlight, Raha.”

He reaches out to thread his fingers with yours again, an easy smile on his lips. “And happiest of Starlights, my dear.”

He sings the cryptic melody under his breath as you slip out of his room. 

His words are a flame burning in your breast as you close the Dossal Gate behind you, guarding you against the bitter chill of Norvrandt’s first winter in a hundred years. The stars above are impossibly clear, glimmering with promise and serenity as you retrace the well-worn steps back to your room, smiling to yourself when you catch peals of laughter break across the Exedra from the Scion’s misbegotten Starlight celebrations.

It is not a Starlight you have ever known, set in against a deepest blue sky unfamiliar and chaotic, but neither would you trade it for any other.

**Author's Note:**

> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)   
> 


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